God's Unwanted Children
by LizzieCriss
Summary: Kurt Hummel's life was boring until he met Blaine Anderson and discovered Fight Club, then everything changed. Fight Club with Glee story line.  Mostly  accurate to the plot of the book. I just had to do it. Reviews are more than welcome! LAN/VIO/SEX/AC
1. Chapter 1

So, I couldn't resist it. Seeing as Fight Club is both my favorite movie AND my favorite book, I had to write one. Can I just say that when Blaine said that, I melted to a puddle on the floor? Anyone else? No? _Sigh._ Also, I know I've been awful about updating DSFGY and I _promise_ that there will be an update soon (it's already in progress). College is hard guys. :/

Story strongly follows the book. As I get further along in the story there will be a lot less direct quoting. I felt it necessary for the first chapter though to get the setup and give you guys a feel for what the mood of the book is. The rest shall (mostly) be me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee nor do I own Fight Club. (But God, do I wish I did! Chuck Palahniuk is a _genius_!)

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><p>Blaine gets me a job as a barista at the Lima Bean, after that Blaine's pushing a gun in my mouth and saying that the first step to eternal life is you have to die. For a long time though, Blaine and I were best friends; lovers even. People are always asking, did I know about Blaine Anderson.<p>

The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my throat, Blaine says, "We really won't die. We'll be legend. We won't grow old." I can feel the silencer holes we drilled into the barrel of the gun with my tongue. See, most of the noise a gunshot makes is expanding gases and the tiny sonic boom of the bullet. So to make a silencer you drill holes in the barrel of the gun, a lot of holes. This allows for some of the gas to escape and the bullet to be slowed just below the speed of sound. But, you drill the holes wrong and the gun will blow your hand off.

I tongue the barrel into my cheek, "Blaine, you're thinking of vampires." He lets out a cold chuckle. The stage we're standing on won't be here in ten minutes. You take 98 percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add that to three times that amount of sulfuric acid. You do this in an ice bath. Then add glycerin drop-by-drop with an eye dropper. You now have nitroglycerin. I know this because Blaine knows this. You mix the nitro with saw dust or cotton and Epsom salt and you have a nice little plastic explosive. Some people use paraffin, but paraffin has never worked for me.

So Blaine and I are center stage at McKinley High School, a place we both—or at least, I thought we both— used to call home. Looking out at the audience we see all of the New Directions members bound to the seats and gagged, the terror is evident in their eyes. I see my friends' faces and my heart begins to hurt. "_This is all my fault._"

Down every aisle members of The Mischief Committee of Project Mayhem run rampant in their navy and red Dalton blazers; seat backs being knocked off with sledgehammers, stage lights being shot out with pistols, bits of the beautiful red carpet being set to flame.

That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well, look, it works both ways.

With the barrel of a gun shoved between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.

We're down to our last ten minutes.

One of the stage lights comes crashing down next to Blaine and I and I let out a whimper as the boys in the audience who shot it down begin to whoop and holler. A Mischief Committee member enters through the large double doors at the back of the house with what appears to be a flame thrower and starts torching the balcony.

McKinley High School won't be here in nine minutes. You take enough blasting gelatin and wrap it around the foundation columns and you can topple any building in the world. Blaine smirks as he watches his plan unfold. The New Directions were The Warblers' rivals, always had been. McKinley High was there home. They beat The Warbler's last year at Regionals and now they were exacting their revenge by taking them completely out of the equation for Regionals this year. I had been a Warbler once but I eventually went back home to McKinley, bringing Blaine along with me. I just never knew that this was what that decision had in store.

Nine minutes.

Blaine and I are right at the center of the blast—the stage— the gun in my mouth, and I'm wondering how clean that gun is.

We totally forget about Blaine's whole murder-suicide thing as we watch a group of committee members tossing flaming pieces of sheet music over the balcony. They slowly flutter to the ground over the heads of the New Directions members.

Eight minutes.

The smoke from all of the fires begins to thicken in the auditorium and the air around us becomes almost unbreathable. The demolition team will hit the primary charge in about eight minutes. The primary charge will hit the base charge and this whole place will go up in smoke.

If I knew how all of this would turn out, I'd be more than happy to be dead and in Heaven right now.

Seven minutes.

On the center of the stage, Blaine's gun in mouth and the flaming little pieces of paper surrounding us, I see smoke billowing in from the open door at the back of the house, and then I see _him_. I know all of this: the gun, the revenge, the explosives has something to do with a boy named Sebastian Smythe.

Six minutes.

We have a sort of triangle thing going on here. I want Blaine. Blaine wants Sebastian. Sebastian wants me.

I don't want Sebastian and Blaine doesn't want me around, not anymore. Not since I've sided with them. This isn't about _love_ as in _caring_. This is about _property_ as in _ownership_.

Without Sebastian, Blaine would have nothing.

Five minutes.

I see Blaine's eyes fall on Sebastian. I see Sebastian's eyes fall on me, then to Blaine and the gun.

"_Maybe Blaine is right_." I think, "_Maybe we will become legend_."

No.

I look out into the crowd and see my friends' faces one last time and I know what I have to do.

Four minutes.

I tongue the barrel of the gun into my cheek, "You want to be a legend Blaine? I can make you a legend. I've been here from the beginning. I remember _everything_."

Three minutes.

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><p>Reviews? You'll be my hero...<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

AND here's Chapter 2! Already! (See, I work fast now that I has an ejumacation!)

Seriously though...

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee OR Fight Club.

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><p>Puck's big arms were closed around to hold me inside, and I was squeezed into the dark between Puck's enormous sweating pecs. Despite how unsanitary the moment was, I couldn't help but feel comforted. I was leaving McKinley and somehow it felt like these were the last moments that I was going to have with these people. I looked around at the tear-streaked faces of my friends. Mercedes was leaning on Rachel and Mike was barely holding a sobbing Tina upright. Finn clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder and I buried my face deeper into Puck's chest.<p>

"It will be all right." Puck said, "You cry now."

So I did. This is as close to sleeping as I've been in a week. After being terrorized by bullies non-stop for weeks on end, one tends to be constantly on their guard. Sleep loss is a side effect of this.

Standing here in this choir room is when the realization of what is about to happen to me hits—I'm switching schools. I've given up. Thrown in the towel. I couldn't take it. Not anymore. Not after what happened.

No wait. Back up. Let me start over.

For months I was bullied for my sexuality. Relentlessly tormented. Constantly shoved into lockers and receiving daily slushie facials. Finally, my dad threw me into therapy because he couldn't stand anymore of my mental breakdowns in the middle of dinner or the violent sobbing that came from my shower every night. Plus, he saw the toll that my lack of sleep was taking on my GPA.

Therapy went well for a while and I actually began sleeping again. Finally, my therapist, Chloe, said I was doing better. So Chloe decided to move me into "group therapy"

This is how I met Sebastian Smythe.

Every day in group therapy, he would sit in the corner with this smug expression on his face. It said, "I don't need to be here." It said, "I'm better than you." His stories were always told with a condescending air and were always too cliché to be believed, but no one said a word.

Our eyes would meet from across the circle every so often and I see him for what he truly is:

_Faker_.

His spikey brown hair, big green eyes, lightly toned body. Just sitting there, openly taunting me. This boy was a faker and we both knew it. After a few weeks, I couldn't sleep again.

At the end of every session, after everyone went around the circle telling how their day went, we would all get up and walk around the room and hug each other. I came to the decision that at the next meeting, after everyone's opened up and we're all walking around giving support hugs, I'm gonna grab that little bitch.

His arms will squeeze tightly to his sides in that navy blazer he wears so proudly, my lips pressed against his ear, and I'll say, "Sebastian, you big fake, get out. I can't sleep with you here, you big tourist. I need this. Get out."

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><p>Review! Review! Review!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Keep those reviews coming! They're my life source! I don't even need food anymore! Also, I'm about to update my original story Dalton School for Gifted Youngsters for the first time in about four months so you should check it out! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Fight Club or Glee.

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><p>Every year before our Sectionals, my Glee Club director, Mr. Shuester, always makes the guys and the girls face off in a little friendly competition to boost our morale. This past year though, I was pushed out of my group and told to go spy on our rival competition, The Dalton Academy Warblers.<p>

This is how I met Blaine Anderson.

I was timidly walking down the large marble staircase at Dalton amongst a throng of excited students in navy blazers when I tapped a boy on the shoulder and asked what was going on. This is when our eyes first met.

"My name is Blaine." He extends his hand and I take it.

"Kurt." I answer, "So what exactly is going on?"

"The Warblers. Every now and then they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons. Tends to shut the school down for a while." He flashes me a devilish smile. "C'mon, I know a short cut."

Then we're off, running down the halls of this majestic building that the average person would scoff at being referred to as a school. We reach our destination and then the voices begin to rise from the crowd. I slowly begin to recognize the melody of a current pop song that I like and our eyes meet again. And suddenly he's singing. He's singing to _me_. I shift uncomfortable in my jeans throughout the whole song.

After the performance, Blaine invites me to coffee with his friends and I agree. He leads me to a common room just a little ways down the hall and we sit and begin to chat.

They accuse me of spying and I can't deny it. They're flattered. I express an interest in their school and its bullying policy and Blaine waves off his friends so we can be alone.

He gives me the comfort that I need in my situation and a little business card with his phone number on it that says "Westerville Soap Company". I shrug it off and shove the slip of paper into my pocket as he bids me farewell.

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><p>That afternoon at group therapy, Sebastian is there again. I notice that the uniform he's always wearing is the same exact one that they wear at Dalton Academy.<p>

We go through the circle and spout off our introductions. Everyone is always getting better, moving on. New friends. New medications. Occasionally someone will show up with a story about how the harassment is getting bad again. That the self-harm has started again. Chloe offers them words of encouragement and asks if they need to stay after and speak with her. Then we hug.

As I'm hugging this mousey little girl with shaggy black hair, I look up and across the room I see Sebastian just _standing there_.

Oh, and Sebastian's looking at me. Singled me out of everyone in the whole group.

Liar.

Faker.

It's time for our embraces and my hands clamp around Sebastian's arms. His hands stay neatly pinned at his waist.

"There's nothing wrong with you." I whisper, "You're a faker. You shouldn't be here Sebastian. Get out."

He doesn't say anything. For a moment, he just stares. Then, "You're a faker, too."

I'm taken aback by this.

"You're a fake just like I am. You sit here and tell these stories at every single session and they're all the same. You've been fine for months. You're just _lonely_."

He's seen right through me. He's seen right through me and into something that I haven't even admitted to myself. "_Hey, I'm cured."_

"Then why do you come here?" I say, "What do you get out of it?"

"It's cheaper than a movie and there's free cookies," he says.

We stand there for a moment in silence, neither of us knowing what to say.

"We'll split the days up." I suggest, "I'll take Mondays and Wednesdays and you can take Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'll take the first and third Friday of the month and you can have the rest."

"Deal."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." And with that, he was gone.

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><p>The next day at school, things take a turn for the worst.<p>

All because of Dave Karofsky, my big bully. My own personal tormentor sent straight from hell to drive me insane.

I'm walking down the hall and I get a text from Blaine. One singular word: "Courage". I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. As I slide my phone shut, I feel a juggernaut slam me against my locker. I look up to see Dave retreating to the boys' locker room before I can say anything.

I follow him in and confront him.

"_Courage_" I tell myself.

"Hey! What is your problem? What are you so scared of?"

"Besides you sneakin in here to peek at my junk?"

"Oh yeah! Every straight guys' nightmare! That all of us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you!"

Soon, we're in a screaming match and I can feel the anger boiling off of him at the venom in my words. I call him a scared little boy.

Without warning, he yanks me towards him, his hands tight on my arms, and his lips crash down onto mine. His stubble is rough against my soft, moisturized lips and his breath reeks of chili dogs and halitosis. And then he's gone. All I hear is the slam of his fist on the locker and the slam of the door as he leaves. And I'm on the floor. I scramble for my phone in my pocket and I dial Blaine's number. He doesn't answer and I sink my head into my lap.

Seconds later, my phone begins to ring. It's Blaine. He claims he never answers his phone. I explain everything and he offers to meet with me and help after school.

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><p>Blaine and I meet at a local café, The Lima Bean. We order our drinks—his a medium drip, mine a grande non-fat mocha—then we take a seat in a dimly lit corner near the back.<p>

For hours we sat and talked about everything. Six cups of coffee later and the store is closing and we have to leave. It's nearly 11:00. Blaine offers to drive me to Dalton and give me a private tour.

We get to the school and Blaine takes me around back to one set of doors. He pulls out a paper clip and gets down to jimmy the lock. Seconds later the door pops open and we're inside. "The alarms have never worked right for that door." He says, "I found that out early on in my freshmen year."

Blaine shows me nearly every inch of the school and I find myself in love with every bit of its interior.

Blaine notices the look of awe on my face. "I can make sure you get in here. I can even get you into The Warbler's without an audition." Blaine says, "You just have to do me one favor."

I would need the bare minimum: six pairs of navy slacks, six pairs of socks, six white button downs, six navy and red striped ties, three navy blazers with red piping.

There, in the middle of the choir room at Dalton Academy in the dead of night when no one was watching, I asked Blaine what he wanted me to do.

Blaine said, "I want you to hit me as hard as you can."


	4. Chapter 4

Here's an update for those of you who are actually reading this. (and if you are, I love you!)

And if you review, I love you even more!

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee OR Fight Club. :D kthxreadnow.

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><p>Two screens into the slide show for my French lesson and I start tasting blood in my mouth. Everyone can see the stitches on my cheek but no one says anything.<p>

When the nurses in the emergency room asked me how I got the cut just under my left eye, Blaine started putting words in my mouth.

"He fell down some stairs."

"Yeah, I uh… fell down some stairs."

My lips become even more sticky with blood as I try to lick it off. Suddenly, I imagine Blaine's lips on mine. The way the curve of his hard body feels in my hands. We hadn't fucked in two days. Somehow that seemed too long for me. I missed the feel of his body slick with sweat against mine as he pounded into me… I needed to stop. French. Right.

The blood was seeping through the cracks of my teeth now.

You can swallow about a pint of blood before you're sick.

After school at Warblers' rehearsal someone finally asks me what happened to my face.

The first rule about fight club is you don't talk about fight club.

"I fell down." I tell Thad, "I did this to myself."

Blaine sits next to me at the council meeting as we decide what songs we're going to be singing for Regionals. We tied with New Directions at sectionals, but somehow, I couldn't even bring myself to care. Blaine and I exchange a look; it's Tuesday. We look up at Wes banging his gavel to restore order and see that his black eye hasn't faded yet. We don't say anything.

The second rule about fight club is you don't talk about fight club.

David is sitting at the other end of the council table and his fists are clenched, the deep, searing cuts on his knuckles becoming more evident. His lip is less swollen than it was last week but his nose looks slightly more crooked than it used to. We can tell that he's looking for a good fight tonight. Last week he had to tap out when a stringy blonde kid named Jeff beat him to a bloody pulp. That's the third rule in fight club, when someone says stop, or goes limp, even if he's just faking it, the fight is over.

Only two guys to a fight. One fight at a time. You fight without shirts or shoes (blazers optional). The fights will go on as long as they have to. Those are some of the other rules.

The first fight club was just Blaine and I standing in the Dalton choir room at 2:00 am pounding on each other.

I just don't want to die without a few scars, really. Even if it is at the price of my beauty.

It used to be that I could go home pissed at the world and just do my moisturizing regimen and know that someday, everything was going to work out. I would graduate high school, attend a performing arts school, become a star, grow old, die—and all of it without a single scar on my pristine face. Hey, even the _Mona Lisa_ is falling apart. Since fight club started, I can wiggle almost half of the teeth in my jaw.

Maybe self-importance isn't the answer.

Maybe self-destruction is the answer.

Wes finally bangs that damn gavel of his to adjourn the meeting. As half of the crowd stands to leave, Blaine walks over to Thad and says "Hey, you might wanna stick around for a while." He then moves to close the door behind the last of the boys exiting and barricade it shut. All around me boys in blazers are clearing out chairs from the middle of the room and stripping off their clothes. I check my watch, it's nearly 7:00; right on time.

Blaine steps into the middle of the circle and his shirt is already gone. I rake my eyes over his muscles in all of their glory and suppress the moan bubbling up in the back of my throat.

Blaine speaks and everyone goes silent, "The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club. The second rule of fight club is you _**do not**_ talk about fight club."

Blaine continued to list off the rules but I found myself not listening, but instead fantasizing about what I wanted to do to him later. I got lost in my own train of thought when Blaine's voice snapped me out of it as he listed off the final rule.

"And the seventh rule: if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight."

Everyone's eyes immediately went to Thad. I tapped Thad on the shoulder and asked him to sign up for a fight, figuring I'd be the only one to go easy on him.

Turns out Thad must have had a bad week.

This nervous little boy became a seething, angry man right before my eyes. I got in a few good punches and his cheek began to swell, but that's about it. He managed to get my arms pinned behind my back and he was on top of my, pounding my face into pristine, oak floors of the choir room. He pounded and pounded until I felt my stitches pop open and I bit a chunk out of the inside of my left cheek. I managed to spray out "Stop!" before I went limp.

He climbed off of top of me and Blaine began scooping me up off of the floor. We looked down and you could make out the shape of my face in the puddle of blood on the floor. "Cool" Blaine said.

Thad moves to grab a mop to clean my blood up off of the floor.

I stop Thad and shake his hand and say "Good fight."

Thad says, "How about next week?"

I say, "Look at me. How about next _month_?"

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><p>The first night Blaine and I fought, I didn't know what to think.<p>

"Excuse me?"

"I said, I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

I paused, "Okay, do you want it in the face or in the stomach?"

"Surprise me." Blaine flashed me that devilish smile of his.

I said, "I've never hit anybody before."

"So just go crazy man. This is what it's all about, living in the moment."

I said, "Close your eyes."

"No."

Blaine locked his eyes on mine as I steadied my feet and balled up my fists.

So, just like every other guy at his first fight club, I breathed in deep and then swung at Blaine just like I'd seen it done in movies hundreds of times before. I missed. My fist connected with his ear.

"Shit!" I say, "I'm sorry! That one didn't it count."

"Yeah," Blaine rubbed his ear and then shook himself out, "it counted." _Pow_. He hit me straight in the kisser. I fell back against one of the large, plush couches in the choir room.

"_Fuck_!"

"Yeah?" Blaine asked.

I rubbed my jaw. "Hit me again."

"No, you hit me."

So we fought. We fought and fought and each punch felt like I was hitting every little problem with my life that I couldn't control. My father's heart problem, the fact that I didn't get a solo again, Rachel Berry's obnoxious voice and overbearing sense of importance, Dave Karofsky and his disgusting chili dog lips. And Sebastian Smythe, who stole my group therapy sessions from me.

Nothing was actually solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered either.

The first night we fought was a Friday and Blaine hadn't shaved all week. The scruff of his beard burned my knuckles. I silently wondered how it would feel against my lips.

I asked Blaine who he had been fighting and he said his father.

He asked me, and I said Karofsky.

Blaine asked me if I wanted to go home with him that night. I did.

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><p>You aren't alive like you're alive at fight club anywhere else. Fight club isn't about winning or losing fights. It isn't about words. Fight club is about feeling something. It's about separating yourself from the piss and the shit and the ignorance that runs rampant in this world. Fight club is about being saved.<p>

Fight club is about self-destruction.

At the end of every fight club, Blaine stands before the crowd and states the mantra that we have given ourselves. "First, we sleep. For in darkness shall we meet to fight with all our might and beat upon our breast and honor the Dalton crest."


End file.
